CHAPTER TWO: The Door

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter noticed Henry looking at him oddly. Granted, it wasn't that unusual for Henry to look at him oddly, but this week—Week Four—he seemed to have upped the Odd Looks ante.

He couldn't think of what he might be doing to elicit this series of Odd Looks, until Tuesday afternoon, when Juliet went to the coffee bar and he glanced at her, giving her the smile he only felt comfortable giving her in this very particular setting (since she wasn't in his personal space and he felt sure she wouldn't come closer, because God forbid she should come closer—he almost had himself convinced he'd forgotten the fragrance of her hair).

(As if.)

While he was smiling at her, he felt Henry's piercing gaze somewhere in the vicinity of his ear, and turned sharply to catch him in the act. "What?"

"Nothing." He returned his gaze to his laptop screen.

"Henry, either say it or stow it."

Juliet was watching them; at least his Juliet-radar indicated she was still close by.

But Henry remained mum.

It was probably about a Psych consult. So far Henry had been very obliging about keeping his son away from Lassiter's cases, and Lassiter for his part had removed himself and Grimaldi from every investigation into which the fraudulent duo might be called. Spencer Jr. seemed happy enough to stick to Juliet's caseload, though his father made a point of sharing Psych out among the other teams.

One of the real bonuses about Juliet's desk being so far from his was that it was closer to the main entrance, and Gel-head couldn't often be bothered to go the remaining distance down to Lassiter's desk to harass him, even with his father sitting nearby.

Truthfully, it was kind of nice to be so easily left behind by some people.

He wondered if Henry had said something to him about staying away. Then he rolled his eyes: even if Henry had done so, no way would Shawn cooperate.

But now he wondered if Henry's Odd Looks were about his split from Juliet, and this did give him pause. Henry was just as perceptive as his offspring and a hell of a lot less intrusive about it.

Still, this was Week Four.

So... it was most likely about a Psych job.

All the same, it was probably time to start keeping an eye on Henry keeping an eye on him.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet flung the pillow to the end of the bed and lay flat on her back.

Let it go. Let it go. Let it go. Let him go.

She didn't want to let it go.

And she wasn't sure she could let him go.

She stared blindly at the ceiling, lit by slivers of light through the curtains.

It's just change. Change is everywhere. Every day. All around.

But he cut you off. He doesn't just have a new partner. He hasn't just shoved you to the far end of the room.

He put up a frickin' wall.

Well, the wall was there to begin with, she admitted. But over the years, and with his help, she'd carved out a nice doorway—a doorway only she could pass through. A secret door to Carlton at his best, at his most relaxed, at his most accessible.

Things had changed over the last six months. Ever since he found out about her relationship with Shawn, things had been different.

But... here in the dark, alone, with no one to be fooled, she knew the changing wasn't all on his side.

She'd changed too. She could think of far too many incidents when she didn't back him up, didn't follow through, didn't act like his damned partner, let alone his friend, because she'd allowed Shawn to distract her.

Carlton had withdrawn gradually, the secret door slowly closing, and she had let it happen, and that was her mistake and her most grievous loss.

Henry's... hinting... was stabbing at her heart.

If Carlton's withdrawal wasn't only about the change to their partnership, and if the departmental changes weren't only about the squad, then Henry's words were more damning than anything else.

They meant she had failed Carlton in every way that mattered to her, because he mattered to her.

More than she normally let herself see.

And sometimes... far too often... hell, maybe always… more than even Shawn mattered to her.

But what could she do now to make this right, or even ease it, let alone get back her secret doorway?

Or was the door closed forever?

She threw the other pillow to the floor, and covered her misty eyes with her hands.

I'm so sorry, Carlton. I'm so sorry.

. . . .

. . .

Grimaldi got in the Crown Vic and handed Lassiter his coffee. "The barista asked about you."

Lassiter frowned. "I tipped her last time."

"Yeah, I figured. She spotted the car and asked if the cop with big blue eyes was out here and how she could get you to come inside."

"Did she say this in a threatening manner? Were her eyes narrowed and was her voice like ice?"

The young man grinned. "No, sir. She seemed… friendly."

Lassiter scowled. "Trust no one, Grimaldi."

"I hear that."

"Especially people who seem friendly to me."

Grimaldi gave him a puzzled look. "Sir?"

Six years ago, to Juliet, he would have launched into a listing of some of "the rules" about how to suss out the motivations of suspects, emphasizing that everyone was a suspect, even someone who was only making you a cup of coffee.

Juliet would have laughed and told him he was paranoid—and he would have proudly agreed—and gently led him into admitting that maybe, just maybe, all people weren't evil or out to get him and even that some people might possibly only want to make him a cup of coffee. And then she would have given him that sunny smile which made him think all things were possible even when they weren't.

He turned now to the young man beside him and said wearily, "I'm sure you checked me out before you transferred over here, so yeah, everything you heard about me being a paranoid hardass is true. But I'm going to teach you how to be a good detective regardless of my personality flaws, so when the going gets tough, suck it up."

"Uh… okay." Grimaldi fidgeted a little. "Detective O'Hara…"

"What about her?" he asked sharply. Too sharply.

"Well, she's got a pretty good rep. If that's your doing, I'm bound to do okay here."

Lassiter allowed himself a small smile, mostly private. "If you have half the natural talent she brought to the table, then you will."

But for damned sure I'll never again let anyone get as close to me as she did.

. . . .

. . .

"You know what you need, Jules?"

A vacation from you, she thought uncharitably.

"You need a party!"

Gus agreed at once, offering to make a list of party supplies.

"No," Juliet said firmly. "I don't want a party."

"But I did such a good job with your birthday party," he reminded her smugly.

Uh… yeah. "I don't want a party, Shawn."

"But Jules, you've been such a Debbie Downer lately, and I'm not sure how much longer I can wait for you to climb out of the valley of Lassielessness and see the light: the light of Lassielessness!"

Juliet glared at him. "Why on earth would you think losing my partner would make me happy?"

Shawn put his feet up on his desk, grinning at her and then Gus. "Well, maybe because most of the time he's Dennis Downer?"

"Shawn, Carlton and I have been friends a long time. He knows me like no one else in this town. We had a connection and I miss it. It's natural to miss it. I miss him."

A slightly miffed expression flitted across his face. "I know you too, Jules."

Really?

"And I know Collins is a good guy and you make a good team and you'll get over Lassie as soon as you let go of the past and learn to love a good party."

Gus said, "Actually, Shawn, she's right. Cops are notorious for having really close partnerships, and losing that can be a little like a death, or a divorce."

"Thank you, Gus." She got up, restless, wishing she'd stayed home tonight.

"No thank you, Gus. We're not talking about a regular person. We're talking about Lassie."

Juliet glared at him again. "Careful."

Shawn laughed. "Oh, come on. I like the guy too. But he's not exactly Mr. Warm and Fuzzy, is he? He's not even Mr. Lukewarm and Moldy. Well, maybe the moldy part, but really—hey!" He dodged the Nerf ball just in time so that it hit him in the shoulder instead of his face, which is where she'd aimed it.

"Just stop, Shawn. I mean it. You don't have to like my friends, but you do need to respect that I like them."

"You have other friends?" He seemed surprised.

"Again I have to agree with Juliet, Shawn. You shouldn't put her friends down. Especially when she's in mourning."

It does feel like mourning.

"But it's Lassiter!" He got to his feet, seemingly genuinely confused that this was even being discussed. "Just go give him a hug, a farewell snowglobe, and move on! It's not like you have a choice, is it?"

Juliet sighed. Snowglobe snark aside, if only it were that easy.

But he was right about one thing: she had to do something.

. . . .

. . .

She went to Carlton's condo on Saturday morning at the end of Week Four. She knew he would be home, and she knew he would let her in.

If she was wrong, and he didn't, she'd shoot out the lock with her gun and go in anyway.

But he opened the door, wearing a t-shirt and flannel pants; his black and silver hair was mussed, his so-blue eyes were wide with surprise, and he stepped back automatically to allow her entrance. "O'Hara, what is it?"

"I just need to talk to you for a little while. Is that okay? Are you busy?"

"No, I'm… it's fine."

It wasn't fine; she could see it in his wary expression—his guarded, all-shields-on-high expression.

She headed for the loveseat in front of the TV, where case files were scattered on the cushions. He quickly stacked them on the coffee table to make room for her, and she half-faced him, hands in her lap, hoping she seemed calm and rational.

He said, totally unexpectedly, "You look really nice," and then blushed.

Juliet felt a little blush too, because he seldom said anything like that even when she knew damned well he thought she looked nice.

He was unduly attractive himself, she thought, all not-buttoned-down and 'relaxed.' He looked warm and touchable.

Focus.

She'd chosen a light and spring-y dress, her hair was down, and she wore dangly earrings he'd once told her—somewhat self-consciously—that he liked.

She'd also used extra peach shampoo that morning, before she even knew exactly what she was doing by going to see him.

(Except that was a lie. She knew. She knew what she was doing and would not be dissuaded from it.)

He was staring at her, once again uncomfortable. "What… did you want to talk to me about?"

"Us," she said simply. "This big change between us. I wanted to tell you I finally understand a few things."

Carlton leaned back a little, presumably attempting to look unwary, but she knew him better than that.

"I know there's something behind your decision to do this now, and I know you aren't going to tell me what it is, and that's all right. It really is. But what I figured out… and what I need to tell you… is it's not just that I didn't want the change. It's that I didn't want to lose you. To lose my special relationship with you."

He was maintaining an evenly pink tone so far. She hoped she was too.

"And it was special, Carlton. I've never had anything like it before. It mattered to me that I was the one you chose to stay partnered with. It mattered that I was the one who could calm you down or make you smile. That I was the one you trusted more than anyone else. Those things are all important in and of themselves, but it was just as important that…" She smiled. "That it was me who mattered to you. And that's what I instinctively knew I didn't want to lose."

The pink was deeper now, and he wasn't moving at all. His eyes were huge blue reflections of his uncertainty about what he was hearing.

"Everything's changed now," she went on softly. "I understand it has to, because it's what you want. I guess it's what you need. And I know we'll try—or at least I'm going to make you try—to keep up over coffee and maybe dinner now and then, because yes, I intend to keep you in my life as much as the job and your stubbornness will allow. But we won't have that 24/7 bond anymore."

"No," he agreed, his tone neutral but his eyes saying he understood and regretted it too.

"You did what you had to do, for all the right reasons professionally and I assume for reasons important to you personally, and I still hope you'll tell me someday."

I think I know, but… I can't say it for you.

Carlton nodded slowly.

"For now," she whispered, "there is one thing I need from you. I can't explain why and it absolutely won't exist outside of this morning, right now, but… I need it."

I think we both need it.

While he was frowning at her, she got up smoothly and straddled him on the loveseat. His hands immediately came to grasp her hips, while he breathed, "O'Hara, what are you—"

Which question she silenced with a kiss.

A six-years-in-the-making kiss.

"O'Hara," he said again, but it was weaker, and she settled her mouth over his again, more sure than a few seconds ago.

His lips were warm, and his hair was soft between her fingers. She pressed to his lean hard chest, feeling his thighs against hers, and kissed him slowly, deliberately, intensely.

He tasted good—he tasted right—and when he let her tongue play against his, he also moved his hands off her hips and up her sides and back, enveloping her more tightly.

Kissing him was ever so much better than imagining it (and she had, more than once over the years, and far too many times in the last week).

The feel of his tongue and teeth, and the more all-encompassing feeling of his tension—and yet acceptance of it—was perfect. His hands slid into her hair, echoing her hands' movement in his, while she traced the line of his lips with the tip of her tongue.

Carlton sighed and claimed her mouth more fully again, need growing.

I should have kissed you a long time ago.

But he grasped her shoulders and put her away from him. "Stop," he whispered.

Juliet stroked his forehead and temples lightly, studying his deep blue eyes, trying to read everything he so desperately didn't want read.

"No," she whispered back. "This is happening today. It's for the past six years. It's for us." She leaned in again and added, "The only choice you have is whether it happens here on the sofa, or in your bed."

Carlton froze for a moment, and her heart skipped a beat at the look on his face. It was want… longing… desire… love. She knew it was. She felt it.

The secret door was nearly closed but she could glimpse the love, even as he tried to hide it away in the private recesses of his heart.

But he wasn't going to be able to hide this morning. Not if she could help it.

And as if he knew… he relaxed his grip on her arms and kissed her.

She felt herself melting against him; she felt him drinking her in through their kiss. She clung to him like a layer of clothing, and very soon she didn't want that between them either. Reaching down, she tugged at his t-shirt and pulled it up, exposing the lean chest she'd wondered about more than once over the years, particularly since their parking-lot scrubdown by the CDC. He was strong but not overly muscled, and her fingers loved the feeling of his chest hair—and his rapid heartbeat—while she licked his lips and let him nibble at hers.

"Off, please," she murmured, and he complied, pulling the shirt off and tossing it away before yanking her close again and reaching for the zipper of her dress. It slid down smoothly, and the dress did not resist being removed from her body.

I don't know how I was ever blind to you. To what we could be.

Trembling, feeling a more powerful attraction and longing than she could ever remember, Juliet pressed herself to him while he unhooked her bra—no more hesitation on his part—and ran his warm hands up and down her naked back, giving her goosebumps and making her arch against his touch.

When he slid one of those hands between them to caress her breast, she shuddered with pleasure. Those fingers—those long warm gentle fingers—touching her bare flesh…

Nobody has ever made me feel this way.

His hot mouth settled over one nipple and she moaned out loud. The sensation of his tongue rasping against her was enough to drive her mad, and he was, oh he was, and it was still so early in the game.

Between them, lower, she ground herself against him. He was aroused and she felt his heat and hardness clearly.

I need to touch you.

"Please," she begged—she begged!—"bed. Please."

Carlton wrapped his arms around her and stood somehow, half-carrying her down the hall and into his bedroom, blue-gray quiet, unmade bed awaiting. She sat on the edge and curved her fingers under the waistband of his flannel pajamas, pulling slowly and finding bare skin underneath. Warm, tempting skin.

He breathed slowly, hands coming to rest on her shoulders as she sampled the taste of him, stroking his thighs and sliding her hands up his stomach, feeling the delicious heat and hearing him sigh as she explored.

But before too long he was urging her to lie back, joining her there and removing her panties with maddening slowness as he kissed a path from her shoulders to her most sensitive, heated place. She was already quivering beneath his tender touches, thinking again but this has only just begun….

What she was doing was either the smartest or most selfish act of her life.

All she knew for sure was that if he was going to be separate from her, on the other side of that bricked-up door, she was taking this memory with her, and leaving one with him.

. . . .

. . .

He remembered her whispering that she'd be gone when he woke up, and it was true.

She was gone, but he could smell her on his pillow, on his skin. Peach silk heat.

It was just past two, and she must have been very quiet indeed, to get out of bed and dressed and out the door without waking him.

But then again, he hadn't slept much in a month, and making love with her all morning—in nearly wordless wonder—had worn him out.

He still felt her against his body.

He could hear her sighs and feel her trembling underneath him as he touched her, caressed her, loved her. He could see the look in her glorious dark blue eyes as he claimed her fully, felt her enveloping him, arms and legs and heat and heart and body and soul.

The sensation of her heart pounding—of his heart pounding along with hers—was like hearing the ocean, relentless and steady and serene and powerful.

He knew there were times when it was necessary to simply accept something, not analyze it, not wonder about it, not expect or fear or long for more.

He'd never been particularly good at just accepting anything.

But this… this he would try to accept.

For her, he would try. He understood what she'd been trying to say: this was a form of closure, wasn't it? A way to mark what was—what could have been, or maybe what never could have been—and use it as a starting point to move on.

He could cynically believe Juliet's actions were motivated by pity, but he knew her well enough—knew she cared about him—to know it was anything but pity. They'd been too close for too long. He knew she liked him, even though he didn't really understand why.

He would take her at her word: she needed this. And it was for them.

Now she was back to her life with Shawn, and he would go back to trying to get over her.

. . . .

. . .